How I rationalize individual actions and attach them to that greater purpose, however, is up to me.
Lucian's phone buzzes on the desk, and I watch his expression shift as he glances at the screen.
"I need to go." He looks at me, apologetic. "You know how it is."
I down the rest of my whiskey and set the glass on his desk. “I get it. Do what you need to do."
We shake hands, and Lucian steps out of the office, already answering the call, speaking rapidly as the door shuts behind him.
I stand alone in my brother's office, in our father's old office, surrounded by the memories of everything this room has seen, of the power we killed for.
And yet, all I can do is think about her.
I tell myself it's because of the lie I just told Lucian, but that's not entirely true. I stare at the Persian rug on the floor and replay those moments in Bogdan's office frame by frame.
How she used her body as a weapon more devastating than any blade.
How her presence, her sheer proximity to me, became a tactical advantage I hadn't anticipated.
I'm not angry. I should be. Any rational man would be furious at being outmaneuvered, at losing the prize, at watching her escape through a window, but fury isn't what simmers beneath my ribs alongside the pain.
It's intrigue.
Pure, consuming fascination with the fact that I've finally found someone who doesn't bore me. Someone who matches my intelligence, my training, my absolute refusal to lose. Someonewho saw through my charm and my calculated seduction and turned both weapons back on me without hesitation.
An equal.
The realization settles over me so surely, it's completely undeniable.
I've spent years surrounded by politicians who cower, criminals who grovel, women who submit. I've cultivated boredom as a lifestyle, finding entertainment only in the manipulation itself, the chess game of power.
But she looked at me like I was the prey. Like she was the predator, and I'd wandered foolishly into her territory.
My smile spreads slowly as I adjust my jacket and head for the door.
I exit Lucian's office, nod to the security stationed in the hallway, and make my way through the Ionescu family's Bucharest headquarters. The building is a converted nineteenth-century palace, all marble columns and gold leaf, hiding the blood empire we've built behind its elegance.
My driver waits by the black Rolls-Royce parked in the private courtyard. I slide into the back seat, and off we go.
It's a short drive back to my place in Primaverii, the neighborhood where Romania's elite bury their wealth behind high walls and security cameras. You won't find any communist-era concrete apartment buildings like the ones we grew up in around here.
We pass my gate, and the driver stops and lets me out. I dismiss him, enter through the biometrical locked front door, and take in the momentary silence of my house.
Eight seconds later, I'm greeted by a maid. I give her a smile and start walking. The first floor is all open space, polished floors, and designer furniture. The walls are decorated with artwork worth millions, as they should be. Or rather, as someone in my position is expected to have.
It's a funny thing to learn about being rich versus being wealthy. There's a difference, and each has its own unspoken rules, which I hate. But a life in politics has certain specifications that must be met, even if you're the one funding your run for office.
Either way, I've checked every damn box, but that's not important to me right now.
I head straight for my office, loosening my tie as I walk.
The room smells like leather and carries a faint scent of last night's whiskey as I sink into the chair behind my desk.
My encrypted phone sits right where I left it this morning.
I reach for it and tap the screen, no notifications.
I'm waiting for something very important, and if I don't do something until it comes, I'll lose my shit. So I dive into some work.
